


Guided to the Light

by solasharel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood, Death Themes, Death by fluff, F/M, Gore, Other, Snuggling, Solavellan, lavellas, solas/lavellan - Freeform, solasxlavellan, surgery terminology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2779376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solasharel/pseuds/solasharel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prompt from azurite-feathers on tumblr: Solas is talking to Varric in the main hall when they hear shouts and horses neighing. Lavellan rides in with arrows protruding from her sides, slumped over a Ferelden bay.<br/>----<br/>Carried on with this a little way - does include a near-death experience and frequent fluff content towards the end.  Smut-free (hardly seems fair to put Lavellan through that when she's got an arrow wound).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guided to the Light

Two voices echoed across the front of the main hall one cloudy afternoon in Skyhold. The dwarf and elven mage were seated together beside the fire, sharing stories of their travels both in this realm and beyond. It was the dwarf's turn to speak.

“So, I'm in the Hanged Man with Hawke, and we're about two pints into the evening, when Broody comes in, slams his sword on the table, and starts yelling about the noise outside his battered old mansion. Hawke looks up, and only then does he realise that she's three pieces of clothing down and halfway through a game of Wicked Grace. He blushed so hard his _tattoos_ changed colour.. unbelieveable!” Varric was recounting the tale to Solas, who, with the Inquisitor away on a mission, had found he had a lot of time and little to do. Solas grinned widely at the image, he could recall seeing similar events in the Fade all the time.

“I would very much like to meet this Hawke some day; the spirits in the Fade speak of her with great interest.” He mused, taking a sip of a frothy concoction that Varric had pressed into his hands and called _ale_. How he loathed its taste, but he did not want to seem ungrateful.

“You never know, Chuckles, that day may yet come. Seeing the Seeker's face when she walks through the hall here would make my year.”

They both laughed at the image of Cassandra's face; a mixture of surprise, wonder and fury in quick succession painting a vibrant scene in Solas' mind. It would be so easy to forget the greater tasks, he felt, and to just live as these people did. He placed the mug back onto the table and leaned back into his chair.

“Do you suppose that the Champion will be able to assist with Corypheus, given her past experience?”

“Hawke and I took him down once already; when she gets word that he's back... she'll show. I can't imagine Fenris will be too impressed with her though. She's the sort to disappear if it means saving the ones she loves. Hell, I don't think Aveline's forgiven her yet.” Varric's face darkened at the elf's name. Evidently, there was a lasting tension in the relationship between Hawke and her elven lover. Solas had seen a few memories from the Fade near the Wounded Coast himself.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of horns and shouting from the battlements. A ripple of whispers pulsed through the hall and guests began to make their way outside to see the commotion.

“Well, looks like Pipsqueak's home. Coming to cheer her in?” Varric stood up from his seat by the fireplace, and Solas nodded before following the dwarf out of the hall. There were quite a few people waiting to see her, and it was still a marvel to him to see how so many people from all creeds had rallied around her. If she were royalty she could conquer continents with but a smile, he thought. His expectant face fell sour when the whispers started. There was no light chatter from the group of scouts that had accompanied her, who all rode in silently. Many had their faces lowered. Cullen was stepping down the stairs as quickly as his armour-clad frame could manage, yelling for his lieutenant to bring a stretcher. The horses seemed panicked, and what few riders there were had a tough time getting them towards the stables. Iron Bull sauntered in at Sera's side, and Solas could see her face was screwed up, dirty with mud and tears, looking away from the growing crowd that had gathered in the courtyard. At the rear cantered Nyriel's horse - a Fereldan Bay that stood slightly taller than the others in the troop - but where she should have sat, tall and victorious, she was instead slumped forward. Dorian had ridden behind her, gripping her limp form to the saddle. As they rounded the gate Solas could see two arrows protruding from her side.

“ _Vhenan,_ no!” he whispered and dread coursed through him like a lightning bolt. He pushed through the expectant party to steady her horse before checking Nyriel briefly for breathing and a pulse. It was faint, but there was shallow breathing. He turned his gaze to Dorian.

“What happened?”

“We were ambushed on the way back, a few hours riding from here. An archer flanked her, but she got the bastard before she went down. It was.. messy. There were trees on fire everywhere.” Dorian's face was grim; to see someone such as the Inquisitor fall was a stark reminder of her mortality. The pair were keenly aware of the gathered crowd's reaction to the scene.

“I have salves for the damage. Get her to my quarters. Immediately.” Solas' eyes glowered. The initial fear was now replaced by a silent rage. This wouldn't have happened if he had been there, but she had _insisted_. It was only a small mission, she said, just a few days in the Hinterlands and they would return. Besides, they had cleared out all the bandits and rogues, hadn't they? He tried not to blame the others, for he didn't know the facts, but his emotional response was to cut through Dorian if not with blades then with words. The Tevinter nodded, a small spark of shame just below the surface. Solas forced his body to move back towards the castle whilst they dismounted the unconscious Inquisitor. To see her this way brought back memories of her bound in chains after falling from the rift, the scar of the Anchor carving its way along her palm, killing her with every pulse of the Breach; he recalled the dark hours after the battle at Haven, how she should have been dead, how she had appeared over the the crest of the valley, frozen almost to the core. Those were fitting moments for a death. Not this. He steeled himself, hardening his heart from the whispers of panic and doubt that crept in at the edges. Varric had tried to call to him, but he never ackowledged his dwarven companion. He strode, stone-faced, towards his rotunda, the ravens cawing in the rafters above the circular room. He cleared his desk; books were piled against a wall, paints stowed away in a lower drawer, the muslin blanket draped over the top. Next he grabbed his satchel. Inside he found the healing herbs and ointments he needed, and laid them out in the bottom of an open drawer – now serving as a makeshift table.

He brought a standing rack of candles closer to the desk – at this moment he cursed the lack of windows – and rolled up his sleeves just as Dorian burst through the doorway with the Inquisitor in his arms.

“We came in through the servant's entrance; didn't want to make a scene. Josephine and Cullen are dealing with the crowd outside.” He kicked the door closed behind him, and Solas gave a hum in agreement. It pained him to see her this way – the blood had drained from her freckled cheeks, instead staining the leather and lambswool coat she was so fond of wearing. There was a light sweat on her brow. If he didn't hurry, the wounds could be infected.

“How long since she lost consciousness?” Solas asked him.

“She was drowsy for most of the way, we were about a quarter of an hour away from Skyhold when she almost fell off her horse. I rode hers with her the rest of the way.”

All sense of humour was gone from Dorian's usual joyous tones. There was a time and a place, even he understood that, and whilst Solas may not consider it a wise course of action the Dalish elf and the Tevinter were fast friends. The two men laid her out on the cloth-covered desk and Solas sat down to examine the wounds more closely. Two arrows, almost parallel, jutted out just below her ribcage. They didn't look deep – thankfully it appeared that they had missed any vital organs – and he carefully cut off the ends of them to allow room to remove her garments. Dorian assisted, but paused momentarily at seeing Nyriel's bruised and bleeding body. Solas made no such hesitation, focused as he was on the task at hand. With greater access, Solas could begin to work on the wounds. He looked at Dorian.

“I need to remove the arrows, and when I do there is going to be blood.”

“I can use cold magic to stem the flow, but it will only hold briefly,” the Tevinter replied. Dorian's hand pressed gently at the edge of the first puncture, and they nodded in readiness. Solas steadily pulled the tip of the arrow out of Nyriel's side; at the same moment Dorian chilled the area. The blood moved slowly, coagulating as it hit the cooler regions of skin from his magic. The extra time gave Solas a chance to apply a mixture of elfroot and and an inky ointment to the round mark in her side, carefully smearing over the gap to ensure that no blood would leak through.

Dorian's voice spoke softly, “could you not use healing magic for this?”

Solas paused, trying to keep his temper in control.  “I'm afraid that the magic I use offers no such healing for these wounds. Barriers and revival spells I can achieve, certainly, as it draws spiritual energy from the Fade to prevent damage or guide the soul back to the body; however, healing for this type of physical damage is not within my capability. The salve I'm applying will help stop any infection and facilitate immediate healing, but she will require stitches in a few hours. I can do those myself later.”

They had continued with the second wound as he spoke, repeating the process by removing the second arrow before sealing it with the sticky mixture. He retrieved the bandage from the open drawer and bound it around her stomach, making sure that there were no spots left uncovered. When everything looked sufficiently wrapped Solas stood up.

“There is nothing more we can do for now. Let the advisors know, and I will carry her to her room. She must be properly laid down.” He assuaged the fellow mage and Dorian turned on his heel to carry the news of her treatment to the others. In an easy motion Solas gathered her limp, lithe form into his arms and headed for her chambers, trying to hold back the increasing possibility that she may not last the night.

 

 

 _Darkness, only darkness. Yelling, screaming, a red rawness. Breathing hitched. Hand on hip. Warm water; sticky. Bleeding. Heat. Pain. Again. Falling. Stumbling. Darkness. Feet on earth; a voice, “_ _**Lethallan... dar'then...** _ _”. No one. Numb. Nothing. Peace. Breathe. Move forward. Slow. No space, too much. A Light. Green and gold and blue. No, no, sleep. Tired. Hurting. Walk away. No. The Light grows. The voice, “_ _**Vhenan, ma era'din sahlin...** _ _” Turn away. Don't look. Sleep. Breathe. A shadow. Feral. Wolf. Howling. Whispers. Turn around. He pushes. The Light burns. Tight, burning. Breathe. “_ _**Suledin, ma vhenan...** _ _” Wrenching. Only Light. Colours. Shudder. Hot, cold, burning, freezing. Sides are cold. Hands are warm. Eyes are open._

 

 

Her eyes blinked slowly. Too much light, was her first thought, too bright in here. She groaned.

“Welcome back, _vhenan_ ,” came a voice, soft and sweet and low. Her eyes flickered lazily to the seat by the stairs. Solas was sat, watching her, a book in hand. There were no other noises, no one else in the room. As her eyes adjusted she could make out the night sky behind the stained glass windows. The fire trickled warmth across the room, setting an orange glow across Solas' features. He put the book down and came gently to her bedside, taking a seat on the edge of bed. Her fingers moved towards his hand with fragility, and he took her hand in his. Warm, comforting. Life-giving. He stroked her palm with his thumbs as she struggled to think coherently, her face frowning slightly.

“Solas?” The words wouldn't come willingly, indeed breathing was difficult. Her throat felt dry, sore. Her ribs were aching.

“You were hurt whilst riding back to Skyhold. There was an ambush, so I'm told, and you were hit by a bowman. Two arrows stuck out of your side like branches on an oak tree. Do you not remember?”

She closed her eyes. A hum passed her lips. No, she did not. With little else to fill the silence, he continued.

“Dorian and I dealt with the immediate concerns, and they are healing well. You have been sleeping for three days. We thought twice that you would not come back at all, your breathing slowed so greatly.”

She could hear the faintest cracks in his voice, his usual rhythm broken. She squeezed her hand, clasping her small fingers weakly around his thumb like a child.

“I tried to find you in the Fade, but you were barely there. I asked the spirits to protect you as you slept, to give you peace, should they find you. I'm glad that they, at least, were able to seek you out. You almost died, _ma lath_.”

He squeezed her hand in return, emotions welling under the surface, and she felt hot salty tears spring from her own eyes. She looked right at him, her voice unable to convey the relief she felt right then. He smiled, and it was as though the sun shone. He leaned over, careful to avoid pressure near her torso, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“I am glad you came back, _lethallan,_ ” he whispered, his nose resting against hers. She nudged it gently with her head, eyes boring into his, and he shifted down to kiss her lips. It was like cool fire, like velvet, as though she were kissing him for the first time. Her free arm reached over her body carefully to caress his cheek and jawline, and for a moment she saw the slightest glint of a tear in his eye.

“Solas..” she whispered

“Yes, _vhenan_?”

“I heard you. In the darkness. You... spoke to me..”

She listened to the memory of his voice, eyes closed for an instant. She was sure it was him.

“I have heard of such a phenomenon. I've spent a lot of time in this room the past few days, you could have heard voices and projected them into your dreams.”

“I saw a wolf... He pushed me... through the light.”

This no doubt sounded like gibberish to Solas, but he smiled kindly and stroked one hand up her arm absent-mindedly. She thought she could detect a falter in his demeanour, the way his eyes seemed to glaze for a second, as though recalling a memory. After a pregnant pause, he answered.

“You must have seen a trick of the light as you awoke, _emma lath_. Spirits do not usually invoke the forms of animals.”

He raised himself away from the bed, crossing the room to fetch some tea for her. She slowly managed to sit up in the bed, shuffling under the covers, trying not to wince too greatly at the pain shooting from within her stitches. She could not avoid the looks that Solas gave her; he could not be fooled.

“Do not push yourself, _ma vhenan_ , you're still recovering. I am here to keep watch for the remainder of the night.”

He passed her the cup and she eyed it with suspicion. Its contents were a murky green, not like the tea she normally drank. It smelled strange, sweet but not how she was accustomed. She raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“It's elfroot, lemon balm and honey, among a few other things. It will soothe your wounds, and shouldn't taste as bad as it smells. I added the lemon balm to help with sleep.”

She gulped it down, three days of lying motionless and dehydrated catching up with her. Surprisingly, it tasted as he had described, a hint of sweetness not quite masking the earthy edge of the elfroot. Already her breathing was coming back to her, and her dry throat was gone. She handed the cup back to him and he poured another for her.

“One more. You must rehydrate if you wish to heal faster.” Her eyes focused on his lips making the words, and on his eyes watching her every movement. She drank the second cup as instructed, slower this time, careful not to make herself ill from her empty stomach. She took the opportunity to examine just where the damage was, peeling back the covers to reveal that she was only in smalls and a thin shirt. She could feel the tight press of the bandages underneath, restricting movement around her ribcage so as not to tear the delicate skin beneath them. Solas must have had her mostly naked to work on the wounds. He laughed a little as the realisation hit her face, a small pink tone forming on the tips of her ears.

“Do not worry, _vhenan_ , I would not permit any one to see you in your current condition. I only exposed the skin I needed to stitch together. Hopefully, you will have very little scarring.” He sounded optimistic, almost proud of the work he had done, and Nyriel smiled in agreement. He sat down once more on the edge of the bed, stroking her hair, and kissing her nose between sips of her drink. She rested the cup on her lap, using one hand to trace his jaw once more. She kissed him gently, trying not to lean forward too much.

“Thank you, Solas,” she murmured, “for taking care of me. I really could have died. I can never repay that.” She kissed him harder this time, a familiar ache emerging slowly within her core, and he replied in kind, holding the back of her head as he pressed his lips to hers. It was not a kiss of arousal, but pure affection, of joy, and relief, and the last remnants of his sorrow. Her lips parted and he obliged the open entrance of her mouth, his cool tongue seeking the tea-soaked heat of her own. She moaned softly, a sigh that echoed through him and ricocheted through his bones. He closed the kiss, his forehead resting against her own, both eyes shining with mutual contentment in this moment. A yawn rumbled its way through her, leaving her eyelids sleepy and cheeks tingling. He grinned; everything she did was magical in some way.

“Get some rest, _vhenan_ , I will be here.” He let her rest back into the pillows so she was comfortable.

“Only if you lie with me,” she asked, yawning and tapping at the bed beside her, shifting her weight onto her good hip. Nyriel had always preferred sleeping on her side.

He obliged her request, first collecting his book from the seat where he had left it before taking up the other side of the bed, gently manouevering himself so that her head rested upon his chest, one arm draped over his stomach and its accompanying hand toying with the cotton shirt he wore. He stayed above the covers in the possible event that someone would disturb them. She hadn't the energy to protest. Instead she yawned in half-wakefulness, and he read to her softly until her dreams took her. Silently he placed the book down and slid an arm around her shoulders. Quietly he settled into the Fade. He would being her pleasant stories, he decided, hazy visions of fields in the Summer-time passing through his mind's eye.

 

**Author's Note:**

> lethallan, dar'then... = "my kin, wake up"  
> ma era'din sahlin = “you cannot sleep now” “you must wake up"  
> Suledin, ma vhenan = "endure, my heart"


End file.
